


One Year Of Love

by QueenIsMyLove



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-24
Updated: 2018-08-31
Packaged: 2018-09-01 23:47:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8642893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenIsMyLove/pseuds/QueenIsMyLove
Summary: Everyone has that hardest goodbye in life. John's is a hint too ailing.





	1. 14th of February, 1974

**Author's Note:**

> This story was born as an idea soon after I read [ Leoithne's wonderful story ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4177005) and decided I want to write something John/Freddie related. 
> 
> As it is Thanksgiving, I would like to wish everyone a lovely day, and say how thankful I am for having a wonderful family by my side, for meeting a great guy who knows how to inspire and challenge me, and for the lost which made me the person I am today.
> 
> To finish, Freddie we all miss you and hope your reunion with your mum was wonderful <3 
> 
> **Disclaimer:** Don't own Queen! Don't mean any disrespect! You know the deal :)

Freddie’s entrance is orotund, startling the men already inside. The singer has been out only for couple of minutes, regardless his foregoing gospel on his adroitness and resilience being able to hale him through a half hour. Roger simpers heartily at the sight, his wager earned him compensation for all quondam lost ones.

Unaware of the consequence of his extemporaneousness, Freddie flops down in the closest armchair, by standard managing the action gracefully. The motion, however, excerpts a raucous puff from the singer. Delilah, who has been trailing faithfully after her owner to continuously debilitate his walk, twists sugary around Freddie’s ankles, straining her lithe body in attracting pliability.

“This fucking sleet, I tell you,” he vexes.

The cat perks up at his voice and leaps from the floor in his lap, where she sashays in a fluffy ball of fur. Freddie dives fingers in Delilah’s mane to cosset plies of it, to which Delilah cedes constant purring. The cat’s body vibrates warmth for his frost-bitten fingers and the man chases the mitigation of iciness; he snuggles in his seat deeper, effacing away the goose bumps formed on his skin.

The drummer is the first who speaks. “Tosh. It can’t possibly be that bad!” 

The singer shivers at the memory. “Bloody worse than I expected, darling.”

“You just walked back in because you were bored,” Roger concludes, before demurring, “There’s no back on the wager, mate.”

Freddie purses his lips and feigns cogitation. When Roger shuffles his feet harried, on the verge of bursting into flames, Freddie yields, “I wouldn’t dream of it, dear. It was ‘bout time you won.”

The drummer scoffs rebuttal, but his leg remains bouncing, rapid and rhythmical, against the front leg of his seat. In consideration of the tremors seeping through the drummer’s forearms, Roger is restricting from depredating the most resembling to drumsticks items and hammering them on the table until rid of the tautness. _There’s something rather nice about spending the evening hitting things,_ he had said once.

 “To hell with that, shall we stay in tonight?” Freddie mostly announces to the room.

Hereupon, Brian lifts his gaze from the latest issue of _Monthly Notices of the Royal Astronomical Society_ housed on his thighs, a facetious smirk in its wake; it reminds Freddie the one detail he despises about the guitarist is the man’s ability to purport completely immersed in a world of his own when monitoring each word uttered as a well-perched owl. Freddie finds it expatriating.

As the guitarist places his attention on Freddie; the singer observes the words Brian intends gifting must carry a value able to override the interest in the display of aptitude his published work provides. The singer does not anticipate what follows.

“Since when are you afraid of a little snow-broth?”

The drummer cackles, but promptly covers the bustle with an intelligently faked cough. The singer isn’t fooled, if judged by the man’s askew look at Roger’s direction. When the intensity of his gaze exhorts a gesture of surrender from the blond man, Freddie gazes back at Brian and thence overlooks the conspiratorial wink the drummer sends to his partner, a label fruited of accordance.

The bassist tracks the spectacle, keeping his calm about since the remainder of the room have enough spite to last them a lifetime. John never really found appeal in embarking barneys with his bandmates, the ordeal somewhat fagged for his taste and in contrast with his aspiration for tenacity, bred close to his heart.

The situation unfolds with Freddie’s soar. “I am not! I simply have no death wish.”

When Brian narrows his eyes at the singer, John suppresses a groan. Without a word, he gaits from where he has been bracing his willowy body and comes to dangle his feet off the armrest by Freddie’s side.

“Would that suggest me having one, Freddie?” Brian voices equably. Although the jittering pulse in his jaw, as he closes his mouth around the last syllable, gives away his exasperation.

John is the person who resolves the resurgent ructions, familiar with an outcome from allowing his friends a chance at disambiguation. “You two go out, if you wish. I will keep Freddie bevy for the evening, if he would be okay with it?”

He uses the hasty quietude to conquer a point with the front-man. He nudges his elbow against the older man’s side, delight bursting somewhere in the vicinity of where he expects his soul should be when Freddie burnishes a smile at him.

“We can settle it so,” the front-man provides, albeit easily.

He tears his eyes from the bassist, and with a dowsed brow and something akin to a pout, rolls his gaze over to the other two members. Roger and Brian strike John as being overwhelmingly mortified, presumably due to the consenting pacification of the normally robust authority in Freddie’s doings, but get up from their seats nevertheless.

Incognizant, Freddie leans back in his seat, his polished blacks curled over the top of his head, languid in scattering locks of hair to the winds. He uses his free hand to wave the two men off through the door with the words, “You are no longer detained, darlings, so off you pop!” He thinks better of it a moment later, and advises, “Take better coats, its brass monkeys outside.”

John goes about it the more courteous way he can dapper. “You go and have a good night!”

Roger and Brian shuffle out the room with mumbles of decorum; well the guitarist does, whilst the drummer’s suaveness equals the words, “Fuck you, Fred.” Roger _knows_ how annoyed Freddie gets when called by that nickname; still, if the drummer is keen on riling Freddie, John aims at being of little avail when the singer’s wrath befalls to bite the drummer in the arse.

The men are out the room but for a moment, when they erupt into giggles at the door; John suspects those are directed at him and the other man in the room.

Though he rolls his eyes, unavoidably he breathes out his relief as well. “Must you rile them up so?”

“Well, of course I must. Otherwise, life’s not interesting.”

Long lashes flutter in John’s direction and he feels a response of equal nature drum in his abdomen; mind flashing vividly back to the night his feelings started, and the same coy glint in Freddie's eyes under the poor lighting of the club is there to input its vertiginous effect. His desperate attempt to conceal the influence of the older man over him crumbles before even raising, since as the singer cradles his cheek no lip biting whatsoever can undermine his infatuation to one less embarrassing.

“And, to the bargain,” Freddie continues, “How else will I get them to leave us alone, dear?”

John forages a way, but is left empty-handed. When about to give in and make an admission, a light flickers a hint at the back of his mind.

In the wait, Freddie dawdles touches in John’s hair, his eyes lost in attending to his work. Nevertheless, he catches John’s elucidation. “An option which doesn’t include me telling them I’d like to shag your perky arse into next week’s gig.”

Expectedly, John turns crimson. “I wasn’t thinking of _that_!”

Freddie chuckles at John's evident outrage, wiggles fingers out and away from the turvy, brown curls and locks gazes with the bassist. “I know, dear. But, you blush so prettily that I couldn’t resist the temptation.”

Malingering offence, the taller man filches from his seat and mumbles under his breath, “Yet, you wonder why I don’t take your bloody side in arguments.” Childish would be an adherent adjective to ascribe to his need for having Freddie chase after him. But, as everything the singer does, this too is addictive; more than the pack of cigarettes lying forgotten on the table, more than the adrenaline a performance can infuse into his body, and definitely more than the zest awakened at the beauty of a complex, moving song.

“Oh, dear. Have I hurt you?” Freddie ponders, carrying a light frolic about him. His eyes narrow contemplative, expression morphing into self-judgement while he regards the bassist. “I can see that I have. Should I kiss it better?”

John ducks his head and staggers against the wall, flabbergasting Freddie. Considering John is ordinarily rendered spellbound effortlessly, the singer resides in an occurrence out of accord with manifold experiences of his. Diffident, Freddie isn’t able to excerpt a step from his clamp-like legs. His shoulders’ muscles are truncated finical, the kind of contortions which would not leave him sleep at night. It has been long since he last felt quite the same; Freddie had forgot how pensive his thoughts grew then.

Doting his gaze on the bassist, he searches for clues on the younger man, minding through his early words for motive to prescribe an apology to.

At Freddie’s undimmed uneasiness, John scowls and hushes a smirk, at the same time crossing his arms over his chest to compliment his pouting lip. Instead of showing the true hues at how affected the singer’s words have him, he decides on brooding as an expedient mode on luring Freddie in.  As John has never given puerility a try before and since his heart is soughing for compassion, though recondite over the possibility of success, he is not beyond testing whether it would work.

He barely keeps laughter under the surface as the singer’s brows draw in, when the singer – all playfulness gone – indecisively whispers. “Oh, I can see I should.”

The man crosses the room methodically and once having the bassist within his reach, crowds their bodies bound against the wall. He piles the younger’s arms down to flatten their chest together and leads them to circle a rest on his waist. Barely apart, they transfix gazes and evaluate the other’s reaction.

Freddie is the one to strive for progress first, as he leans in the remaining distance to press a light kiss over those taunting lips. Elsewise, he is unfit of getting to John. He coaxes the bassist’s lips further, committing his fullest in baiting the man before him. His attentions are met stone.

His heart dodders in its pace. The singer ripples in his stand.

Freddie steps away, when his eyes descry the glassiness in John’s eyes, behold the jagged breathing consisted of heaving collarbones and distinct insistence on ebbing the quickness of breath. Freddie indulges a moment of self-righteousness. 

John catches him off guard when he doubles over and splays laughter everywhere in the room, Freddie’s heart included. It is unexpected, but Freddie doesn’t mind. At all. John’s laughter is nimble at becoming his favorite sound.

 

_You don't fool me - those pretty eyes,  
That sexy smile - you don't fool me._

 

“You –, ha! You really are easy to fool.”

“We are gonna bloody have to change your ability to have a laugh at my expense!” Freddie grumbles, scowling at the person before him, until John’s laughter eases.

At draught, glint stars in the singer’s eyes, intense. “And, I have an idea how to do it.”

John smirks in return.

Freddie flushes the body he knows almost as well as his own by his side, admitting, “You actually had me fooled.”

The bassist mumbles under his breath once more, this time the words remain undiscerned. Anywise, he falls step before Freddie, as the other’s hand on his waist guides him out the room.


	2. 5th of August, 1975

John is antsy from the time spent in the studio when the argument breaks out. By the time it blows out of every fucking proportion, he is astringent. His leg is bouncing up and down tetchily, forcing the bass to wag wild; the man is sure he will drop it sometime soon, if they proceed in the same manner.

He glances at the singer, who is all vacuity and effulgence, and wonders how he can manage to be unaffected by the whole drama. Then again, it was Freddie whom the word was created for. An assumption that a dramatic person would be immune to its shudders is consequently made. John sighs, but the singer pays no attention to him. With the way Freddie is perched with his hips against the edge of the desk and has arched his back, John imagines the singer is done taking notice of the behavior of the other two members.

Roger’s voice cutting through the music forces John’s thoughts to scatter away, capturing his attention.

“What the _fuck_ are you doing?”

Since Freddie’s huff speaks volumes of dismissal at the drummer’s words, John is glad they are not in the live room to further infuse the argument.

Brian cuts the riff short with an unpleasant screech, then proceeds to lose the plot. “What do you mean, what I’m doing? Bloody playing your song, that’s what!”

The bass drum in Roger’s set thuds in succession. The drummer must drop his sticks at some point over the snare, because the rhythm is continued for a short moment.

“You are playing something alike a damp squib, because if I ever write shit like that, I give you full fucking permission to throw me off the band!”

John can’t help himself. “Here we go again.” He even sounds dejected to his own ears. Being in the studio all day, listening to the same whining and complaints over and over again, can do that to a man – it would seem.

This time, Freddie does look at him, an eyebrow elevated in question. “You can go home if you want.”

“And, leave you alone with all this drama?” John vaguely wriggles his fingers at the two arguing members.

The man rolls his eyes, then rests them back on John. He doesn’t seem half as affected as John feels, but than that is what makes Freddie such a great person to work with – his ability to keep calm in the most stormy of situations; of course, unless it is a goal of his the singer is fighting for, as in that case all wrath can fall. “I can handle a little drama, John.”

“It’s your middle name, of course you can.” John doesn’t know where the courage for those words had sprang from, but he certainly doesn’t regret them when Freddie’s lips twitch. “Still, it wouldn’t be fair.”

The singer looks back to the live room. Equably, “I suppose not.”

They focus back on the fight heating up, and Freddie chuckles. So openly, John almost startles. It has been a long time since he had seen the man crack an honest smile. Freddie has been immersed in thought lately, distant and dismissive of all parties he has been informed of.

Roger and Brian had tried giving Freddie the talk, worried over the mental state of their friend, but were strategically shut down on each attempt. John thought he would in no way contribute nor he could assist the two others properly, and kept away. It is not as though his history with the singer still proceeds them around bitterly, but they are not quite past it yet.

Or, John isn't. Sure, he is married and happily, and loves Veronica intensely with complete devotion which he would never risk for the sake of his little whims, but it is not the same. With Freddie he had been different according to what he remembers, he had been daring and had been constantly taking risks, challenging himself in respect of getting more. He had started to open up, give a little more of himself to get equal treatment in return. Never in his fears did oversharing appear, sure that Freddie would tease without maliciousness about him; so he had given their relationship all. That is not how he is with Veronica. He does share, but keeps a great portion to himself. It is plainly not the same. In no other sense, except of his inability to ever forget the man.

“We need to slow down,” Brian argues, his voice high. John looks away from Freddie’s back.

“We can’t slow down.”

Freddie interrupts, clearly battling to hide his laughter. “Right, take two.”

Neither the drummer nor the guitarist note Freddie’s intervention. They keep barreling on.

“I’m trying to slow everything down.”

Roger launches himself out of the isolation booth, hands raised at chest level and fingers splayed in the air, equipped with the right dosage of rigidness to convey his belligerence. “Well, it doesn’t need slowing down. It’s –. God! It’s creeping at the moment.”

“Alright, try…”

John purses his lips when the second time around Freddie is also ignored, but Freddie is having the time of his life it would seem, so John feels tension leaving him and cracks a smile as well. For Freddie’s sake.

“God, it was so slow and it was getting even slower. You always try to play this like I’ve never even.”

“Take two.”

John chirps in, now amused. “You play the fucking twelve string.”

“Take two.”

When the arguing proceeds, Freddie takes it upon himself to put a stop to it. "You think it’s difficult for you, Roger? Try singing this! The music cut out to the lyrics is all in the fucking wrong rhythm - it's a real cock up!"

Brian turns to Roger and declares, "And, that's what I've been trying to tell you, babe. We have to slow it down, so Freddie can sing it."

Roger casts a few looks between Freddie and Brian, puffs indignantly and hoarses out, “Alright then, I’ll follow you.”

Brain’s noise, responding to the drummer's outrage, highly resembles one of an injured whale. Freddie rolls his eyes exaggeratedly, a trade in the making as their togetherness germinates in time; John finds it excessively adorable.

“Right, take two.”

Roger’s head snaps to the singer at the repetition. “Freddie, I don’t appreciate you constantly trying to help by interruption.”

“Well, you are whining, dear. I am trying to shut you up!”

And, it would seem, that does it.

John cracks his neck left and right, rolls his shoulders – first one and then the other; and slides the body of the bass along his thigh, reaching up to the turning keys to readjust them, all the while supporting it with fingers tipped over the bridge daintily.


	3. 18th of July, 1970

A tenacious day of preparation has them rocking out as best they can in front of the gather of their closest friends, fellow students and college acquaintances. Freddie is gradually falling into the rhythm, lets the crowd’s cheers carry him into the atmosphere. It’s not the best spot to carry out the gig, but it’s the only London one they can sanction on their financials.

Being on stage feels right, though the chemistry between them feels lacking. Three of them have the friction needed, but the bassist feels amiss. Freddie cannot sense the smooth glide one unit must possess to reach out to the audience and though it is only their second ride as a group, the front-man knows it is something that cannot be established – even through time.

The music dies out after the last song, and the show is closed successfully, all things considered. The crowd cheers around as they walk between flocks of people, compliments flying around them, hands patting them in passing. It is excessively flattering. They scatter in the crowds, each approaching a familiar face in order to mingle.

Halfway through his first alcoholic – _thank goodness_ – beverage of the night, Roger steals a glimpse over his watch and finds it is past twelve. His eyes scan the crowds, but Brian is nowhere to be seen.

He calls out, “Has anyone seen Brian?”

Someone, from somewhere, answers, “He went outback.”

“Thanks, mate.”

The guitarist appears deep in thought when Roger’s eyes land on him first. His shoulders are hunched, almost as if he were cold. His head tilted right, Roger singles out, as if the man is unaware of doing so. Brian is immobile.

The drummer joins him once he finishes his deductions. “Happy birthday, Brian.”

His friend looks at him, covering him being startled by curling up his lips as his lashes flutter in quick succession. “Thanks.” Brian looks away then, teeth biting on his lip, tugging in as the flesh reddens. “Tonight was good.”

“Could’ve been worse,” the drummer confirms, nudging his shoulder against Brian’s. “Now, pleasantries aside and small talk out of the way, why are you hiding out here?”

There is silence, until Brian’s quell whisper offers, “I messed up a riff out there.”

His friend’s voice sounds dejected, Roger notes. As if that brief moment of failure matters more than the whole success of the show. It is useless self-berating, so the drummer comments, “So what? It’s our second gig, Brian.”

“You didn’t see the look Freddie gave me.”

Roger barely refrains from rolling his eyes, in a dramatic fashion fit to the guitarist’s statement.

“It’s a live show. Mess-ups happen, especially this early on. Freddie will understand,” the drummer reassures. “As a matter of fact, I think he was more likely worried, rather than condemnatory.”

Brian throttles a step forward. “It still doesn’t erase the fact I cocked up.”

Roger knows his expression radiates disbelief. “Sweet Jesus!” he exclaims. “You can’t expect everything to be perfect!”

Brian’s next words are a murmur. “ _You_ didn’t mess up.”

“Well, I _am_ perfect.”

A pleasant feeling nests in Roger’s chest when Brian blurts, “Yeah, right.”

Eyes crinkling at the corners, he doesn’t stop the smile from overtaking his expression. “I’d be offended, but you’re not in your right mind at the moment.” He nudges Brian, resisting the urge threatening to have him resting his head on the taller man’s shoulder, and steps a precautious step to the side.

Roger cannot pinpoint the exact moment his friendship had started morphing with the desire for something deeper. He only knows he had been straining under the necessity to have Brian near him at all times, a pressure of not living what he mostly wants. Their friendship had not changed in the drummer’s eyes in the slightest, he doesn’t shy away from the person he wants to be with, but he keeps that little detail to himself. It is a complex, sensitive situation.

Stuck in his thoughts, he notices Brian’s movement late, only when a hand lands on his shoulder. His bones strain under the touch, arching into the warmth Brian’s skin provides. The guitarist doesn’t seem to mind. He smiles at Brian, reassuring grin in place, and the man removes his hand with a little trailing touch along the filigree material of Roger’s shirt.

A thought comes to mind. “Do you want to get out of here?”

Brian doesn’t take much time to decide, agrees without a second thought. They let Freddie know they are heading out, make him tell Mike as soon as he can find him, not that they expect the man to obey them.

Roger throws his leather jacket on – regrets the choice he had made when picking an outfit, since the article does nothing to keep the shivers away. He admits being envious of Brian’s jacket, to which the other man huffs, “Well, I am prefect.”

“That made no sense, even for your smarty-arse self.”

“Oh, shut up,” the other counters, no vehemence in his voice. A little later, “How is your guitar playing coming along?”

“Let’s say there is a reason why I am the drummer.”

Brian outright laughs. “That good, huh?”

“I can do wonders with percussions, but when I pick up a guitar, I numb out.” The words are accentuated with a shrug, but his expression sours. Eyes downcast, he keeps on walking along the street without noting the flutter in Brian’s step at his words.

“You are a good player, you know,” Brian assures, once he falls into line by his friend, “for a beginner.”

“Beginner being the key word there, eh mate?”

It doesn’t sound like Roger believes his words, but for the matter to be even worse, he sounds every bit disappointed over what should have been a compliment. Though Brian had aimed to tease, as well. Brian blinks a few times, watching the slope of his friend’s hunched shoulders.

A thought that had bugged Brian since Roger had approached him first, asking of tips about improving his skills, slips past his lips, “Why are you so focused on this all of a sudden?”

“No reason.”

He wraps his fingers around Roger’s forearm, giving him a disbelieving look. “Yeah, right.”

“Just never mind. It’s not like I am going to do what I had in mind anyway, so.”

The drummer’s eyes are downcast still, and Brian feels his fingers itching with the need to trail under his chin and get Roger to lock eyes with him. Roger is biting his lip, his eyes are seared on where Brian’s grasp isn’t easing, as the taller man has no intention to let go until he sorts through whatever is bugging his friend.

Softly, he wonders, “Is it a girl, then?”

Roger looks up sharply, bitter smile negating before his words do just the job. “Not exactly.”

Having the privilege of Roger’s gaze set on him, the guitarist proceeds, “Someone you want to impress?”

The drummer’s eyes venture above Brian’s shoulder, unfocused. “Maybe.”

“Tell me.”

Roger looks back at him. “No.”

“Please.”

“There’s nothing to tell, Brian. And, there never will be.”

He wiggles his arm free, and keeps on walking. Brian is rooted on the spot until he hears Roger’s voice calling out for him, “You coming or what?”

Having Roger doubt his abilities and wanting to improve them, to have someone pay him more attention, stings Brian’s chest madly. For one, it is a silly notion. In Brian’s opinion, those unable to see how wonderful and caring and sarcastic piece of shit Roger is, without the man proving it to them, are not really worthy his time. Another more vitriolic reason is, the person Roger is fixated on quite so much as to be willing to change for them isn’t Brian. Even when the change is something as silly as being a better guitarist.

Except, lately Roger has been different in other aspects as well. He is not surrounded with his ceaseless cloud of smoke all the time and that feels like a blow to the chest, as it was Brian first who had insisted on Roger cutting back a little. _Unless_ , it was Roger wanting to learn a few additional tricks on the guitar to impress a better player than himself and to have Brian help him was – in his words – _kind of defeating the point there, mate_ ; his insistence on inviting Brian everywhere had doubled. And, not a girl, but someone. Who plays guitar, knows him well, _despises_ smoking and is a friend. _Him._

“Oh,” he murmurs.

Roger queries, “What?”

“Nothing,” he assures. “I just realized something interesting.”

Roger pauses, steps stalling on their own. “And, what would that be?”

“You’ll find out soon enough.”

Eyes squinted, the drummer states, “Brian, I think we’ve established mysteriousness doesn’t suit you.”

“I am not trying to be mysterious, Roger,” Brian speaks, ceasing his stride as well, to lock eyes with his friend. A convenient, mostly cocky, smile curves his lips. “I just want to sort through it before sharing.”

“Sure, okay. I can work with that.”

Roger can’t shake the feeling of missing out on something important for the rest of the night, but he doesn’t stir the conversation in that direction again. He ponders over what exactly had been to set off Brian’s freakish mind, but as the man is thinking-personified it is impossible to pin it down. He goes to bed with the idea nudging him constantly, the realization must have been something important.

The exhaustion of the day, the alcohol in his blood and his ability to ignore a problem until it just disappears lull him to sleep. The following morning, he remembers too little too vaguely of the previous night for the oddity to worm a way into his mind anew.

A forgotten dormant it remains.


	4. Early 1971

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As long as I had been away, I hardly expect anyone to express interest in this story. Should there be someone who does, a new chapter for your pleasure! ;) 
> 
> Have fun!

The bassist never expected meeting Roger and Brian in a dodgy disco, could ever bring him to a situation such as this. If he had known it, the man is sure to have reconsidered the audition.

“That’s absolute bollocks, darling!” Freddie’s deplores in a fluid hoick, vacating the commodiousness of his roost. “Never?”

“Never,” the bassist affirms. He is verging on feeling uncomfortable as never in his life before, showered under the attention resulting from Freddie’s constant examinations.

Roger and Brian keep silent, bewildered and unimpressed respectively.

“Well, that’s unpardonable! Buckle up, we are taking Johnny ‘ere out.”

Having given nothing to support his unfathomable notion, the singer rushes through the door with his expectations in having his desires granted based on former experience.

Brian breaches the subject once the room gets subjected to the silence Freddie’s absence infuses. “Is there somebody now who dares not going after him?”

“He will have our heads!”

The guitarist chuckles at the drummer’s comment and provides a noncommittal grunt of agreement.

Freddie’s voice reaches them from the corridor, loud and clear. “Well, come on the lot of you! John’s waited long enough!”

They shuffle out the room grave, as if walking a mourning of a close deceased.

The pub is misty smoke, sweaty odor, crowded darkness when they arrive and yet, to the bassist it has an appeal of coziness. Maybe the reason lies in the familiarity the environment selflessly provides, it would not be a first time. Though, John suspects it has resulted from the imminent presence warming his right arm, shuffling up and down in the stride.

The four of them breach a path to the nearest wallaby table; Freddie leading forward fearlessly. He wobbles his bottom saucily when sousing in a chair, daunting the few with lickerish eyes on him. Freddie has never been one to covet for something, his charm always assured to gift at his feet the desired. He has also never been one to back away from a challenge, thus strives to wake in others smoothness of equal nature. John decides not to impound in those estimations.

As the night progresses, a quaff gobbles up to two and then to four, yet Freddie keeps at it, makes sure the drinks get poured anew. Roger and Brian put finishing touches to the secrecy of the extent their afflictions have achieved; though many would turn a blind eye to two man engaging genialities in unreserved devotion.

John strays his gaze from his bandmates, not an act of prudery on his behalf. More or less, the man is disinterested in seeing his friends in a dancelike mating ritual. Not that much differs from his friends and the mass of unknown bodies, yet the crowds on the dance podium are drawing his attention in.

At a point when John’s eyes wander over at the succinct bunch longingly, Freddie’s breath against his lug prompts, “Are you alright, dear?”

The bassist avoids rolling his eyes as equally as evading a proper response, which is feasible to fortify corollaries magniloquent almost as equal as the singer’s flatulence; the bassist has so much he is feeling far from alright for, he could cover an entire album of one foul-up alone.

He sniffs, but the luridness of the sound doesn’t make it past his nostrils in the repercussion of the party. He lights a cigarette, smokes in languidly, and puffs a duff breath. “Freddie, I told you I’ve drank before. It has only never affected me.”

“You’ve not drank the right concoctions then, dear.”

John mounts a snort at the older man, swivels in his seat and pointedly looks away. Being neglected has never withheld Freddie from conversation before, and John isn’t very expectant of Freddie’s withdrawal on this particular occasion either. Their habitudes, as truculent and zany as they are, had taught the remaining three members of the band never to bother a try in countermanding the singer’s advances.

Surprisingly enough, the presence on John’s side shifts away. The bassist resists showing the lurch of utter astonishment which paints his skin in goosebumps; John is tempted to cast a puzzled glance at the singer, but the little of superciliousness he has keeps him firm on the spot. He focuses on the crowds, gives winding down his impetus skin all his devotion.

Freddie’s face pulleys in vision soon afterward, answering his early questions in regard the singer’s intentions. The man droops his elbows on the table and stretches catlike his body back, though he is leaning forward and intentionally crowding John’s space. The bassist eyes trail down the singer’s body, pupils dilating. John’s mind comes up with an excessively vivid image of the singer’s bottom shaking as it had at the start of the evening.

Freddie has a spry titter about him. His frame holds alluring, blandish and open. John’s heartbeat stutters, before picking up in pace. If the glint in the singer’s eyes is anything to go by, the man has full awareness of the effect he has on John.

Freddie’s voice taunts, all charm, “On your feet.”

“Why?”

“Dancing,” the singer provides without further explanation, as though the word makes perfect sense.

Freddie rolls his shoulders, in what the bassist suspects is his provocative aura, and a lopsided smile curves his lips further on.

Dread settles low in John’s gut, the bassist ferociously shakes his head. “Freddie you must have rocks in your head if you think I’m going to get up and fucking dance out there.” He accentuates his words with a wave in the general vicinity of the podium.

The front-man jounces on his toes in succession, then complains, “Oh, come on! I am not going to wait. I want to dance. Now! And since I am chaperoning your intoxicated arse, you have to dance with me.”

“Fred, I said no.” John’s words are harsh when he speaks them. “Besides, this chaperoning shit was your idea, and I’m not intoxicated.”

The shortened name runs past the bassist without him even registering the occurrence; thus, has Freddie’s eyes widen comically at understanding John’s being badgered by his persistence.

“Dearie me!” The singer’s brows furrow, drawing creases on his forehead. “You can’t tell me you’ve never had a bloody dance either?”

“Just, go away.”

“You have, haven’t you?” When John ignores, Freddie continues, “Deaky?”

“Yes, I fucking have.” The bassist’s hands fly up, displaying his agitation. “Alright?”

“Good,” the man enthusiastically confirms, snaffles John’s wrist as if his life depends upon it, and hauls him on the podium.

John throws his head back with a crane of his neck, as though calling out a prayer to a higher power. His throat bobs with a grunt of angst, before he recalls it is Freddie in question and there is no one, nothing brave enough to take him on. Thus, John sinks in resignation with his inability of avoiding Freddie’s intention and he follows the singer, as no other idea of escape blinks in him.

He regrets his choice of talking to the band further, the conversation seems a more horrid idea then earlier, when in the torrid, sticky air of the pissed off dancers. John stands convinced he has never felt fouler an air in his life, and words with indisputable gravity, when coming from a person who has had more than his fair share of intoxicated friends gracious enough to honk all over him. He presumes the staleness of the alcohol strewn about must burden a part of his reaction in finding it all as displeasing as he never has before.

When in the middle of the dance podium with ever the attention seeker, Freddie draws him in; so John’s chest clashes against the singer’s back, rendering the bassist gobsmacked. He gobbles a breath up, but the bite catches in his throat, closing it even further. John raises his hands half in auspice and half because he is in the dark as to where he should place them exactly, when Freddie cuddles their bodies as if aiming for a union in one. John's fingers twitch for their own appetence and he helplessly smirks at the heavy notes he would have played if he had his bass in them. Under bloody pressure.

He docks his hands on Freddie's hips, hoping the high-maintenance singer won't find faults in the sweatiness of his palms. Of little avail for the man it would be even if he did, as John firmly believes in his ability to call bullshit out on it being Freddie's idea.

Freddie's sharp bones are distinct under his fingerprints, stand out compared to the feel of petite women John considers his type. John quite likes it, however. There is rather a freshness about it, something of the novelty escalates into a spark. John's mind races at the recognition of appreciation rising in him. That is a development the bassist is unsure if he should acknowledge.

In the beat of the music, John comes to see the complete ignorance he is treating the other men and women dancing around him with. It's Freddie, who his attention is centered on; somewhere along the lines of the dance, he has grown to focus only on the man before him, quite extravagantly so. When Freddie casts his head back and curves his neck to lasciviously wink at him, John senses a whirl of surprise in the pit of his stomach igniting. He centers himself with a reprimand and focuses on not missing the beat; no way will he give Freddie the satisfaction of calling him a bad dancer, even if it is more bodies rolling together than dancing what they are doing.

When Freddie reaches out and curls fingers in John's hair, something inside the bassist snaps. All his doubts dwindle away. His fingers tighten around Freddie, as he towers over the singer's back; a sudden feeling of invincibility rolling in his veins.

John gives Freddie a sideways glance, finding his dance partner immersed in his moves; the bassist trails a hand just above the hem of Freddie's pants, a ghost of a touch, merely a test. Freddie's eyes flutter open and while still half lidded, rest on John. The brown John knows as Freddie's color is replaced with black, dark and lustful. He repeats the motion again and Freddie's chest reverberate with what must be a groan of pleasure, the singer's eyes gazing in and through him. The vibe of approval encourages John to do what he never considered himself capable of. His hands move over the singer's chest and stomach, just a thin material separating flesh from connecting. He moves his body synced with his friend's, closes his eyes in appreciation for the heat emanating from Freddie - a heat John has never known before. His palms are still sliding along smooth torso, sure of the path they are taking. Daring. Hungry. Almost Freddie-like.

John's hips stutter forward at the realization, and grind an arousal against the singer's clad-covered behind; John shamelessly moans at the contact, only becoming aware of the effect the dance is tolling over him. All reason seems to have slipped past him, as with no warning whatsoever, John lets his neck cave under Freddie's insistent pull and sinks his nose where Freddie wants him to, in the juncture of the singer's neck. John throws Freddie into him more, a little rough. He keeps nosing the sweaty skin, investigative of the detected. At the surface, lies the cologne the other man uses only for special occasions. Underneath the more distinct note, a covered one John suspects would compliment the taste of the singer's skin just right.

His lips being just a slightness away, pant open and John's tongue darts out to test the theory. After all, the scientist in him cannot resist such a rich temptation. He presses lips against Freddie's shoulder, a bit more determined when no resilience comes from the man in question. John is on the verge of losing the last bit of reason he has about him, and frisk Freddie against the closest vertical surface in depth, audience be damned, when an interruption arrives in form of a friendly touch.

The hand resting on his shoulder is rather an insult to the bassist, so John whirls around to provide a glare to whomever is standing on his left, but is unable to deliver his intention to completion, as his eyes zero in on another hand curled over Freddie’s shoulder. Ire flares up in him, and he snaps left which earns him a whiplash, only to find Roger standing by them smug cap-a-pie.

The blond man leans in, and vociferates, “Come on, we are leaving!”

John nods an agreement promptly, still dizzy with Freddie's perfume, whilst Freddie provides a not so eloquent, “Uhgm.”

Roger pats Freddie’s shoulder in his hand's withdrawal, and mutters, "At a loss for words, mate?”

The only reason John knows why Roger's eyes are glinting with amusement, is because he reads the words from the drummer’s lips.

Said man turns towards him. “Whatever you did to him Deaky, well done, mate!”

With a wink to seal the deal, Roger scatters away.

"Oh, I have some words for you," Freddie calls out at the retreating back. "You can kiss my cheesed off bum, dear!"

John shakes out a breath and almost stumbles forward, when the singer steps away, like a puppy drawn in by a motherly bark. Though in fairness, John understands his desires might be a tad dodgy. When Freddie whirls around, the singer’s cheeks are rosy and flushed and beautiful. John is greeted with a sudden urge to lean in and leave a bouquet of kisses over those apple-like cheekbones, to tell Freddie how much he loves him and... A squeal runs past his lips, but luckily in the loud room, Freddie hears nothing, or pretends to anyhow.

The older man cocks his head to the side before immerging from whichever thought entertained, and marches toward the exit, leaving John alone in a crowd of strangers to examine around the mayhem of feelings churning his stomach. Love? Surely _not_.

Except a moment ago, when such desire and strength commanded his being, John was ready to shower Freddie with his turbulent feelings. To give a piece of his mind and provide a surprise for the always prepared. The bassist feels wretched for having those feelings for his friend, even more so for not sharing them; still, he convinces himself drama is always better being avoided. He follows his friends out, back to the mundane life he knows as his and aims on putting the whole ordeal behind and to rest.

At the face of one night of staggering realization, and words close to the heart and of magnitude left unspoken, John will have a what if to regret for the rest of his life.


End file.
